leqsebi

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
He rode to the edge of the forest,
Lighted a roaring fire,
Sat and whittled a skewer,
Started the meat a-roasting.
While the meat was sizzling
He let his horse roam to graze.
The horse caught sight of a man
Coming toward them from afar.
The dapple-grey reared up and whinnied,
This man is evil, he felt.
Avtandil called his squire:
Bring me my steed straight away.
He patted the horse on the rump,
Mounted, was off like the wind.
He raced down the narrow path,
Across the field even faster,
Looked back — in swift pursuit
An infidel army was coming.
Of a hundred, he struck down each man,
Till one, dressed in black, remained.
This man let fly an arrow,
And Avtandil’s blood gushed forth.
Leaning against an oak-tree,
A branch drawn in front as a shield,
He slumped down and wrote a letter,
Then tied it onto a dove.
Bring this news to my mother:
I’ll come no more to you.
That white veil that you loved,
Now dye it black for me.
My cloak and felt overcoat
Hang on the door as a shield;
My dagger and my belt
Give to the priest as an offering.
And as for my young wife,
Don’t marry her off too soon.
But if you do, to a man
With eyes and strength greater than mine.
My fortress and manor-house
Send them with her as a dowry.
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